WARNING: M RATED

  Chapter - 03

  He was on his back again. The mattress felt like skin.

  Warm.

  Breathing.

  Pulsing.

  Rafa couldn’t tell if he was awake. Or if he was back in that pce—the one his dreams kept dragging him to. The one that smelled like Isa’s hair and his mother’s soap. The one where shame dripped from the walls like sweat.

  Isa was straddling him.

  Naked.

  Hair down like a veil.

  Eyes glowing with something not human.

  But her hands were tender.

  She touched his face like she was sorry.

  Like she was saying goodbye.

  “Do you remember,” she whispered, grinding slow, “what you felt the first time you came?”

  He blinked.

  Tried to sit up.

  She pinned him down with her hips.

  “Don’t lie.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “Confused,” he muttered.

  “Where were you?”

  “Night. I—I saw you that day.”

  She smiled. “You thought I didn’t notice.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. I always did.”

  She leaned forward.

  Bit his lip.

  Blood trickled.

  Rafa moaned.

  And she began to ride him.

  But slow.

  So slow it felt like time was bending around them.

  Rafa's hips bucked upward, seeking more of that exquisite torment, more of the tight, slick heat engulfing his throbbing cock. But Isa was relentless, her pace unchanging, each slow grind a memory dredged up from the depths of his mind.

  Every thrust was a memory.

  Of her skirt.Of the bathroom stall.Of his mother calling his name while he hid under the covers, hand soaked with guilt.

  “You made me,” he groaned, hips lifting against her.

  She licked his neck.

  “I was you.”

  Then her face shifted.

  Her eyes melted.

  Turned bck.

  Hair fell away like dead roots.

  Now it wasn’t Isa on top of him.

  It was his mother.

  He screamed.

  But she kept riding him.

  Kept rolling her hips in that slow, hypnotic rhythm that made Rafa's blood boil and his pulse pound in his ears.

  Her cunt gripped him like a fist, slick and scorching, squeezing him with every undution.

  Kept smiling.

  And her voice didn’t match her mouth.

  It came from everywhere.

  “Your body was never yours,” she hissed.

  “It was promised to the flesh before you ever had a name.”

  He came hard.

  His cock jerked and pulsed as it erupted, spurting jet after jet of hot, thick cum deep into that greedy cunt.

  Like something was ripped out of him.

  And he woke up gasping.

  Alone.

  Soaked.

  Panting.

  The walls were still breathing.

  And he wasn’t sure if it had been a dream.

  Or a memory.

  The air used to smell like undry detergent and heat.

  Back when the walls weren’t made of meat. Back when windows weren’t luxuries. Back when silence was possible.

  Rafa remembered the balcony. The sound of Isa humming while she watered the dying basil pnt. She always forgot it needed water until it was nearly gone, then poured her whole soul into nursing it back to life. That was Isa: st-minute miracles, equal parts chaos and devotion.

  He’d sit at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, pretending to do homework while he secretly watched her move.

  She didn’t know.

  Or maybe she did.

  Their apartment was on the eighth floor. Beige walls. One couch. A TV that only worked when you smacked it.They weren’t poor—but they weren’t anything. Just two leftovers of a broken family. A father who vanished into politics or drugs, depending on who told the story. A mother who died without making much noise. Isa was seventeen. Rafa was fourteen. They were alone, but they were used to it.

  Isa cooked. Badly. Pasta with too much salt. Instant rice, soggy. But she tried. And every night, they’d sit at the chipped table, eat, and say nothing. Not because they didn’t want to talk—because they didn’t know how.

  Still, it was a kind of peace.

  Until the sirens started.

  It didn’t make sense at first.Whispers on the radio about extremists. Governments cracking down. Cities going dark. People began to vanish. Stores closed early. Soldiers on the street. Curfews that became indefinite.

  And then, one day, the bombing started.

  They were in bed—Isa in her room, Rafa in his. The explosion hit four blocks away. Gss rattled. The air screamed. And then silence.

  The next morning, everything changed.

  Water stopped running. Power flickered. Then it died. The streets filled with people running nowhere. Doors were kicked in. Windows boarded up. Gunshots in the distance.They stayed inside. Ate what was left in the pantry. Took turns sleeping. Barricaded the door.

  Rafa found a crowbar in the maintenance closet. Isa took a knife from the kitchen. They were siblings. But they became something else. A unit. A tribe.

  They didn’t speak much. Just moved in rhythm.

  Until, one day, the food was gone.

  They left the apartment.The city was dust.

  They saw a child’s body in a stroller, covered in flies. A man hanging from a mppost with a sign around his neck that read: Wife-Eater.

  They didn’t cry. They walked.

  They found shelter in the tunnels. Underground. With others, at first. But people don’t stay kind when food runs low.There was a man who tried to touch Isa while she slept. Rafa didn’t think—he just acted. The crowbar connected. Over and over.

  The blood was warm.

  After that, people left them alone.

  Isa started sleeping closer to Rafa. Sometimes with her arm over him. He felt safer. And confused.

  Months passed. Then years, maybe.The world above was dead. Governments gone. No order. No news. Just rumors. That the cities were infested. That something new was growing underground.

  One day, they heard a voice. A man calling down a tunnel, humming a hymn. He said there was shelter. A pce where the flesh lived.

  They followed.

  The first time The Mouth called it a ceremony, Rafa thought he was joking.But then the candles were lit.The dirt floor was swept.And the air thickened—suffocating, like the walls were breathing.

  The Mouth stood naked. Always naked now.His body was wiry and grey like something mummified but still moving. His ribs stuck out like bdes under skin.He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.Only stared.

  Isa sat across from Rafa in the dim circle, her chest bare, sweat slicking her colrbones. Her eyes didn’t waver. They never did now.

  She was the first to kneel.

  And then the others followed.

  They’d come crawling in over weeks. Strays, scavengers, half-dead things in ripped coats and broken minds.People who had lost names. Lost nguage. All they had left was instinct and ache.The Mouth gave them new names. Names like Carrion and Seraphim and Mew.They wore nothing. They were always warm down here, even in the dark.

  And he fed them.

  Not with food.

  With touch. With purpose. With the unbearable pleasure of being seen.

  “Tonight,” The Mouth whispered, “we eat divinity.”

  And they understood. Even Rafa—he understood now.

  The circle tightened. Skin brushed skin. Hips pressed together. Someone moaned. Someone ughed like a child learning a secret.

  The Mouth walked behind Isa and tangled his fingers in her hair.

  “She has been faithful,” he said, like he was addressing the Earth itself. “She has shed shame. She has become vessel.”

  He brought her forward, id her on the ground like an offering. Rafa didn’t move.

  He couldn’t.

  His breath choked in his throat.

  His cock was hard. He didn’t want it to be. But it pulsed like it had a mind of its own.

  The Mouth crouched over Isa, whispering something no one else could hear. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open. She was glowing. Or maybe it was just the candles.Then she reached for Rafa.

  “Come here,” she whispered.

  He did.

  Crawled. Like an animal. Like everyone else.

  The rest was noise. Flesh. Screams that were half ecstasy, half grief. Hands everywhere.Someone licked Rafa’s neck. Someone else was sobbing into the dirt.It didn’t matter whose fingers were inside who.It didn’t matter where one body ended and another began.

  They were one. A single writhing beast. A storm of sweat and spit and desperate rhythm.

  Isa was under him, around him, inside him in a way she never had been before.Her breath was hot in his ear.“You feel it now, don’t you?”He couldn’t answer.

  Because it wasn’t her voice anymore.

  It was The Mouth’s.

  When it was over, the floor was sticky with god.

  The candles burned out.

  No one spoke.

  They just id there—flesh tangled in flesh, breath rising and falling like a single living thing.

  Rafa stared at the ceiling. Dirt. Cracks. Shadows.

  And for the first time in a long time, he felt nothing.

  The dirt floor was cold now.

  Rafa woke up alone, surrounded by the imprint of bodies but not the bodies themselves. The stale stink of sweat, sex, and blood clung to the air like a second skin. His mouth was dry. His chest itched.

  He looked down and saw it.

  Carved into him—PROPHET—shaky lines dug into his skin, still weeping red.

  He didn’t scream. Just stared.

  “Where the fuck is she,” he mumbled, voice cracking like a child’s.

  Isa was gone.

  So was The Mouth.

  So was the sound.

  He staggered to his feet, legs trembling. Every muscle ached like it had been used by someone else. He remembered fshes—heat, bodies pressed tight, Isa’s eyes rolling back. He remembered her voice, or maybe The Mouth’s voice through her.

  He remembered watching.

  Not touching. Just watching.

  Hands groped her breasts, fingers delved between her thighs, mouths tched onto her neck and lips.

  He saw Isa's hand reach out, wrapping around the thick, pulsing cock of a man he didn't recognize. She stroked it with clear intent, her thumb swirling around the leaking crown, smearing the beads of precum that dotted the swollen head.

  Isa's eyes were gzed with desire, her cheeks flushed a deep, arousing pink. She looked drunk on the depravity surrounding her and intoxicated by the carnal hunger.

  Two burly men flipped his sister onto her hands and knees, her ass jutting out, her dripping pussy and tight asshole on lewd dispy. They didn't bother with forepy, simply grabbing her hips and smming their thick cocks into her, one plundering her cunt, the other spearing into her virgin ass.

  Isa screamed in a mix of pain and twisted pleasure, her back bowing as she was split open on their pistons. Her tits bounced and swayed with each brutal thrust, the obscene spping of flesh on flesh echoing through the room.

  At the same time, another member grabbed Isa's hair, forcing her head down to his throbbing cock.

  She opened her mouth eagerly, taking him deep, slurping and sucking like a woman starved for dick.

  All around them, men stroked their hard shafts, fisting them to the debauched sight. Two women roughly groped and squeezed Isa's tits, pinching and tugging at her stiff nipples.

  Her moans were muffled around the cock fucking her face, drool dripping down her chin. Her cunt clenched greedily around the shaft pounding into her, trying to pull it deeper, while her asshole fluttered and squeezed, gripping the dick vioting it.

  “She is everyone’s now.”

  He moved through the tunnels like a ghost, half-naked, blood dried on his chest. The deeper he went, the more warped the space became—candlelight flickered in ways that didn’t make sense. Shadows didn’t follow the bodies that made them.

  Whispers followed him instead.

  “You were born for this.”“You watched her open.”“She loved it.”“You loved watching.”

  In one room, he found a pile of clothes soaked in something dark. In another, crude drawings on the walls—stick figures with a dozen limbs, multiple cocks in mouths where eyes should be, Isa bent backward like a spider—sucking The Mouth's cock—who was towering above her.

  And then—He saw a painting.

  Of himself.

  But not him. A twisted version. Eyes hollow. Mouth sewn shut.Around the painting: words carved in circles.

  “The Witness. The Watcher. The Weeper.”

  He dropped to his knees, shaking.

  And then—visions.

  Not dreams. Not memories.

  Hallucinations.

  His mother, naked in the hallway, sobbing, reaching toward him.

  His sister behind her, younger than she ever should’ve been, whispering something with blood down her thighs.

  He covered his eyes.

  He screamed into the dirt.

  When he opened them again, Isa was in front of him.

  Silent.

  Her face bnk.

  Naked.

  But it wasn’t her anymore.

  It was The Mouth in her skin.

  And behind her—others. The cult. Dozens now.

  All naked.

  All staring.

  All waiting.

  “You watched,” The Mouth spoke through her lips. “Now you lead.”

  They reached for him.

  And he didn’t resist.